Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  “Oh, Lottie,” said Adeline, her hand to her mouth. “What are we to do with you now?”

  Lottie stood very still, an unseasonal chill seeping into her bones. Her baby lay peacefully in the woman’s arms, her fair hair forming a feathery halo, her seraphic face illuminated by the sun.

  She hadn’t blinked.

  “I CAME BACK TO MERHAM WHEN CAMILLE WAS TEN weeks old. I wrote and told Joe, and he asked me to marry him as I stepped off the train.”

  Lottie sighed, placed her hands in front of her on her knees. “He’d told everyone that the baby was his. It caused a scandal. His parents were furious. But he could be strong when it counted. And he told them that they would be sorry if they made him choose between us.”

  The last of the wine was long gone. Daisy sat, oblivious to the late hour, to the fact that her feet had gone to sleep under her.

  “I don’t think his mother ever forgave me for marrying him,” Lottie said, lost in some distant memory. “She certainly never got over me landing her precious son with a blind daughter. I hated her for that. I hated her for not loving Camille like I did. But I suppose, now I’m old, I can understand a little better.”

  “She was just trying to protect him.”

  “Yes, yes she was.”

  “Does Camille know this?”

  Lottie’s face closed over. “Camille knows that Joe is her father. Joe is her father.” Her voice held a note of challenge. “They’ve always been very close. She’s a daddy’s girl.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “What happened to Adeline?” Daisy whispered. She said it with a kind of dread, fearful of what she might hear. She had found herself weeping at the story of Frances’s suicide, remembering her own darkest days just after Daniel left.

  “Adeline died almost twenty years ago. She never came back to the house. I used to keep it clean for her, just in case, but she never came. After a while she didn’t even write. I don’t think she could bear to be reminded of Frances. She loved her, you see? I think we all realized it even when she didn’t. She died in Russia. Near St. Petersburg. Quite wealthy, she was, even without the things that Julian had given her. I liked to think she was there because she’d found Konstantin.” Lottie smiled shyly, as if embarrassed by her own romanticism.

  “And then when she died, she left me Arcadia in her will. I always think she felt bad about me marrying Joe.” Lottie stirred, began to gather her things around her, placing her glass on the floor by the chair. “I think she thought she let me down by disappearing when she did.”

  “Why?”

  Lottie looked at her as if she were stupid. “If I’d had the house then . . . the money then, well, I wouldn’t have needed to get married at all.”

  INTERLUDE

  I cried for six whole days on my honeymoon. Peculiar, Mummy said afterward, for someone who had been so desperate to leave home, especially as a married woman. And more so when you think of our wonderful cruise ship, with our beautiful first-class cabin, paid for by the Bancrofts.

  But I was terribly sick, so much so that Guy had to spend hours wandering around on his own while I lay in our cabin feeling wretched. I still felt miserable about Daddy. And, strangely, I felt absolutely rotten about finally leaving Mummy and the children. You see, I knew nothing was going to be the same again. And though you might think you want that, when it actually happens, it feels so dreadfully final.

  We didn’t behave like honeyspooners at all, really, not that I would have told the parents or anyone. No, my postcards were full of the amazing sights and the terrific dinner dances and dolphins and sitting at the captain’s table—and I told them about our cabin, which was absolutely stacked with walnut and had a huge dressing table with lights all around the mirror and free shampoos and lotions, which they refilled every day.

  But then Guy wasn’t himself for a lot of it. He told me it was because he preferred open spaces to water. I got a bit upset at first and told him he’d have wasted a lot less of both of our time if he’d told me beforehand. But I didn’t like to push him too hard. I never did. And he came around in the end. And, as that nice Mrs. Erkhardt said, the one with all the pearls, simply all couples argue on their honeymoon. It’s one of those things that no one ever tells you. They never tell you about other things either. But she wasn’t so specific about those.

  Besides, it was fun in parts. When they first realized we were on our honeymoon, the band struck up “Look at That Girl,” you know, that tune by Guy Mitchell, every time we entered the dining room. I think Guy got rather sick of it after the third go. But I liked it. I just liked everyone’s knowing he was mine.

  I heard from Sylvia, sometime later, about Joe. Mummy was surprisingly cool on the whole thing. She didn’t even want to know whether the baby really was his, which surprised me. I would have thought she’d be simply mad to know. In fact, she got positively shirty when I brought the subject up. But then I think she had her hands full with Daddy’s drinking at the time.

  I didn’t tell Guy. Women’s gossip, he said once, when I started telling him about Merham. I never mentioned it again.

  PART THREE

  FIFTEEN

  Daisy had worried for almost ten days how to properly apologize to Jones, how to find ways to convey that her look of horror, her abject tears that morning, had been a reaction not to him but to who he was not. She had thought of sending flowers, but Jones didn’t seem like a flowers man, and she was never entirely sure what the individual blooms were supposed to convey. She thought of just ringing and saying it, in blunt terms, his terms: Jones, I’m sorry. I was embarrassing and crap. But she knew she would not be able to leave it at that, that she would blather and bleat and stammer her way through a messy explanation that he would despise even more. She thought of sending cards, messages, even getting Lottie, as she was now brave enough to address her, to do it for her. He was scared of Lottie.

  She did nothing.

  Fortuitously, perhaps, the mural did it for her. One afternoon, as she waded, pen-sucking, through lists of specifications, Aidan had approached her to tell her that one of the painters had been scraping lichen from the outside terrace wall and had found color underneath the whitewash. Curious, they had chipped away a little more and found what appeared to be the image of two people’s faces. “We didn’t like to do any more,” he said, leading her outside into the bright sunlight. “In case we ended up pulling off the paint underneath.”

  Daisy stared at the wall, at the newly revealed faces, one of whom she could just make out to be smiling. The painter, a young West Indian man called Dave, sat smoking a cigarette on the terrace. He nodded his interest at the wall.

  “You want to get a restorer in,” said Aidan, stepping back. “Someone who’d know about a mural. It might be worth a bit.” He had pronounced it “muriel.”

  “Depends who it’s by,” said Daisy, bending forward again. “It’s nice, though. Kind of Braque-ish. Do you know how far it goes across?”

  “Well, there’s a patch of yellow in this left-hand corner and blue up there to the right, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a good six feet. You want to ask your woman there what she thinks. She might have been around when it was painted. She might know something about it.”

  “She never mentioned anything,” said Daisy.

  “There’s a surprise,” said Aidan, rubbing at dried plaster on his trousers. “Mind you, she never mentioned anything about diapers on-site and no drilling during sleepy-bye-byes either.” He grinned slyly and leaned back, as Daisy turned to make her way inside. “Here, you’re not putting the kettle on, are you?”

  Lottie had been out with Ellie. So Daisy rang Jones, initially planning to tell him, eager to have him associate her with something good.

  “What’s the problem?” he said bad-temperedly.

  “No problem,” said Daisy. “I . . . er . . . I just wondered if you were coming up on Thursday.”

  “Why Thursday?” In the background she could hear the soun
d of two telephones ringing, some woman having an urgent conversation. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” he yelled. “Give him a glass of wine or something.”

  “Health and safety. About the kitchens. You said you wanted to be there.”

  “Well, give him a coffee! Hello? Oh, Christ, I did, didn’t I?” He groaned, and she heard him place his hand over the receiver and shout something at what she assumed was his secretary.

  “What time are they coming?” he said a moment later.

  “Half past eleven.” She took a deep breath. “Look, Jones, stay for lunch afterward. I’d like to show you a couple of things.”

  “I don’t eat lunch,” he said, and put the phone down.

  She had rung Camille, remembering that Hal was something artistic, but not wanting to ring him directly. It was the kind of thing you had to worry about when you were a single woman. But Camille had been enthusiastic, had said she should speak to him straightaway. Daisy didn’t need to get a restorer, she said. Hal could do it. Hal had done all sorts of courses on restoration back at art school, not just furniture, she was sure. Hal himself sounded less convinced, uncertain whether his knowledge was up-to-date enough.

  “But you could find out about any new techniques. I mean, it’s not a canvas, it’s only an outside wall.” Daisy had gauged from Camille’s tone how much this job might mean to them both. “It can’t be that important if they’ve slung a load of whitewash over it.”

  Hal had seemed hesitant at first, then cautiously enthusiastic, as if he couldn’t believe he were being thrown a life preserver, albeit a small, potentially leaky one. “I’ve got a friend over in Ware who still does a bit. I could ask him. I mean, if you didn’t mind the fact that I wasn’t a professional.”

  “If you do a proper job on it, I couldn’t care if you were a professional mud wrestler. But I need you to start now. I need a good part of it visible by Thursday.”

  “Okay,” said Hal, sounding like someone who didn’t want to show quite how pleased he was. “Right. Great. Well, I’ll make a few phone calls and dig out some supplies, and then I’ll head over.”

  This was her chance, Daisy thought as she went back out to the garden. This would show Jones that she was capable not just of renovating the interior of this building by herself but of rising above this persona as whom these people seemed to think of as her: the Daisy she pitied and despised. It was a ridiculous trait, Daniel had once told her, this desperate need for everyone to approve of her, but she felt it regardless. The evening that Jones had come, she’d felt satisfied that he had finally seen a newer, better side of her. Because, she cautiously admitted to herself, she herself was beginning to approve of that person, too, instead of solely mourning the loss of the old Daisy. She was stronger now, not quite so bowed by the events of the recent months. Babies do that, Lottie had said when Daisy asked her how she had coped alone. You have to be strong.

  Daisy, thinking back to Primrose Hill, had disagreed. But realized that in some small way she had slowly, through some form of osmosis, perhaps, begun to acquire a little of Lottie’s own thick skin. She had thought endlessly about how the young Lottie had given birth, almost unsupported, in a country far from home, and how she had refused to be cowed when, both disgraced and penniless, she returned. She had watched how Lottie the elder now sliced through life like a bread knife, generating respect from those around her simply by virtue of her own confidence and acerbic wit. She expected people to accord her her dues, that things would go the way she desired. She didn’t give two hoots if they didn’t. And what was she, when it came down to it? A pensionable housewife, wife of a garage owner in a small town, mother of a disabled daughter, who never had a job, a career, anything. (Not that she would dared have described Lottie like that to her face.) Daisy, meanwhile, was still the Old Daisy she had been (albeit a slightly more generously clad version)—she was still attractive, still intelligent, just about solvent, and now, as her accountant put it, she was a sole trader. I am a Sole Trader, she had said aloud to herself after she put the phone down. It all sounded so much better than Single Parent.

  She did miss him. Still cried occasionally. Still considered it an achievement if she could get through a couple of hours at a time without thinking of him. Still sometimes found herself checking his horoscope in case it offered some clue as to his return. But almost three months after he’d gone, Daisy could at least envisage a time, maybe a year ahead, give or take a month or two, when she would get over him.

  She tried not to think about whether Ellie would ever feel the same way.

  THE HOURS HAL WORKED ON THE “MURIEL,” AIDAN SAID, it was no wonder his business was on the floor. You couldn’t do hours like that at a fixed price, he told Daisy, as they sat drinking tea in the kitchen, watching through the window as Hal, bent double against the wall, painstakingly brushed at a tiny section of worn paint. Daisy of all people should know. Small-business men couldn’t afford to be perfectionists.

  Small-business men couldn’t afford to be anything if they didn’t get the upstairs corridors finished by Tuesday, like they’d promised, Daisy said pointedly, but Aidan had affected not to hear.

  “Now, if your man there were paying him by the hour . . .”

  “I think he’s enjoying it,” said Daisy, ignoring the fact that most of the time Hal looked rather agonized. Is this okay? he would ask her three or four times a day as she came out to admire the increasingly distinct images. You don’t want to employ a professional? He never looked particularly convinced when Daisy said she wouldn’t. But Camille, who came up twice a day bringing tea and sandwiches between appointments, said that when he got home, he was buoyant. “I think it’s exciting,” she said, not seeming to mind her husband’s lengthy absences. “I like the thought that it’s been hidden. I like the thought that it’s Hal who is bringing it back to life.” They held hands when he thought no one was looking. Daisy, somewhat enviously, had caught sight of Hal explaining the images to his wife when he’d broken off to pull her to him and kiss her.

  The only person apparently not pleased about the mural was Lottie. She had been to town on one of her mysterious errands (she would never tell anyone where she was going or what she was doing; if asked, she would tap her nose with her finger and tell people to “mind their own”), and when, on arriving back, she caught sight of Hal gently working on the exposed images, she had exploded and demanded that they stop immediately. “I painted over it! It wasn’t meant to be shown,” she said, gesturing wildly at Hal. “Paint it back again.”

  Daisy and the workmen, who had been examining some guttering, had stopped what they were doing to see what the shouting was.

  “It’s not meant to be shown!”

  “But it’s a mural,” said Hal.

  “I told you! You shouldn’t be taking the paint off. Just stop, do you hear me? I would have told you about it if it was meant to be seen.”

  “What’s under there?” murmured Aidan to Dave. “The plans of where she buried the bodies?”

  “I can’t stop the renovation now,” said Daisy, perplexed. “Jones is coming especially to see it.”

  “It’s not yours to show.” Lottie had become uncharacteristically, weirdly agitated. Camille, who’d been bringing Hal his tea when Lottie arrived, stood holding the mug, blank incomprehension on her face.

  “Mum?”

  “Hey, what’s the matter, Ma? What’s upset you so much?” Hal had reached out a hand to Lottie’s shoulder. She shrugged him away furiously.

  “Nothing’s upset me. Yes it has—you wasting your time uncovering some piece of rubbish has upset me. You should be concentrating on your business, not fannying around on some worthless piece of graffiti. Why don’t you do something useful, like try and save your business, eh?”

  “But it’s beautiful, Lottie,” said Daisy. “You must have seen that.”

  “It’s rubbish,” said Lottie, her face dark and panicked. “And I shall tell that stupid boss of yours it’s rubbish. And I�
��m the historical adviser or whatever you call it on this house, and he will agree with me.” And she had walked off, her back bristling her displeasure, leaving them all open-mouthed and halting.

  BUT JONES DIDN’T AGREE.

  Daisy, sneakily, brought him out to see it while Lottie was off getting milk for Ellie. Shut your eyes, she told him as he stepped onto the terrace, and he raised his eyes to heaven as if she were an imbecile and he forced to indulge her. She took his arm and steered him around the pots of paint to where Hal had recently stopped work.

  “Now open.”

  Jones opened his eyes, Daisy’s own not leaving his face. And his dark, beaten-down eyes blinked in surprise.

  “It’s a mural,” said Daisy. “Hal here’s restoring it. The builders found it under some whitewash.”

  Jones looked at her, apparently forgetting to be irritated, and moved closer, peering at the increasingly distinct images. He was, she noted, wearing the most appalling pair of corduroy trousers.

  “What is it?” he said after a minute. “Some kind of last supper?”

  “I don’t know,” said Daisy, glancing guiltily behind her for the sound of a child’s buggy. “Lottie—Mrs. Bernard—won’t tell me.”

  Jones kept peering. Then stood up and turned to her. “What did you just say?”

  “She’s a bit unhappy about us uncovering it,” she said. “She won’t say why, but it seems to have upset her.”

  “But it’s beautiful,” said Jones. “It looks great out here. Gives the terrace a focus.” He turned and walked to the far end of the terrace, examining the mural from a distance. “We’re going to have chairs here, aren’t we?”

  Daisy nodded.

  “Is it old?”

  “Definitely this century,” Daisy said. “Hal thinks it must be the forties or fifties. Certainly no earlier than the thirties. Perhaps she covered it up during the war.”

  “I had no idea. . . .” Jones was speaking to himself now, one hand raised to the back of his head. “So . . . can I ask how much I’m paying for this? The restoration, I mean?”